


Kick In the Head

by bewildered



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:46:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25190344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bewildered/pseuds/bewildered
Summary: Part of the 2020 Elysian Fields Exquisite Corpse group fic project! I was given the first paragraph of the story, which was the last paragraph of the preceding author's contribution, and then my final paragraph was passed on down the line. Read all together, they make for a wonderfully surreal journey through the world of Spuffy!This is chapter 2 of Exquisite Curiosities. It can stand alone as well. Please enjoy!
Relationships: Spike/Buffy Summers
Kudos: 30





	Kick In the Head

Fact one: Drusilla was back in town. Fact two: She’d somehow slayernapped Buffy and brought her to Spike, chained her up and stripped her down to her underwear. Fact three: And Spike, rather than rejoice that the woman he’d spent two years moping about was back and apparently very enthusiastic to be with him, was giving Buffy coded messages. While also playing her body like a harp because…what? That’s what Dru wanted? Hell if Buffy knew. She’d run out of facts. All she had left was instinct. Which meant, damn, she was screwed.

This was what she got for trying to let Spike down gently.

“Spike?” Buffy tried a soothing smile. “Please stop touching me there.”

He looked at her very seriously. “You are my sunshine. My only sunshine. I've sunshine enough to spread." He kept on touching her there.

What the hell did that mean? She tried again. “Spike, those are my private places and I have not given you permission to touch them.”

He nodded sagely, doing something to her breasts that was probably illegal. “There are many wonders in a cow’s head.”

Okay, enough being nice. “Spike! If you don’t get your hands off me _right now_ , I am going to kill you!”

He smiled vacantly. “Like the sailor said, quote, 'Ain't that a hole in the boat?'”

_ Oh, god. _ Looking at that expression on his face… Spike wasn’t speaking in code. He was speaking in complete gibberish. He wasn’t even _in_ there! What the hell had Drusilla done?

“Don’t fret, poppet,” the mad vampire sang from across the room. “He’ll burn the sunshine out soon enough and we’ll be on our way.”

Enough was enough. Buffy grabbed the chains attached to the manacles around her wrists, hauled herself up like a gymnast on the rings, and kicked Spike in the head.

He didn’t even try to block her -- another sign that the lights were on but nobody home -- just spun around in a circle, smiled emptily, and then caught himself, staggering like he was drunk. Then he blinked, eyes slowly focusing on Buffy. They were confused, then interested... then horrified.

“Buffy? What the bleeding hell--” His head whipped around and he glared at his sire. “Dru! What the sodding hell is going on?”

Drusilla pouted, shrinking into herself. “The baby fish were burning you,” she said in an aggrieved tone of voice. “I only wanted us to be a family again.”

“Did you fucking _thrall_ me?” He glanced back at Buffy, eyes wide, and then rounded on Drusilla again. “What the _fuck_ did you make me do?”

“Only what you wanted, my dark knight.” She glanced off to the side. “Miss Edith said--”

“ _Fuck_ Miss Edith!” Spike rushed over to some piece of furniture draped in a sheet, reaching under the sheet to pull out a stake. He strode purposefully towards Drusilla, shoulders tight. “Are you all right, Buffy?” he growled, voice shaking.

“I’ll be all right when you unchain me and I get to kick you in the head a few more times,” Buffy snapped.

“Right. Just let me take care of this first.”

Drusilla huddled protectively before he reached her, tears springing to her dark eyes. “Poor Spike,” she whispered sadly. “Even I can’t help you now.” She turned and ran out into the tunnels, inhumanly fast.

Spike took a few running steps after her before coming to a sudden halt, shoulders heaving, stake clenched in his hand.

“What did I do?” he asked in a low, shuddering voice.

“Nothing I can’t fix by _kicking you in the head more_ ,” Buffy replied sweetly.

He cast her a quick glance, then looked away again. “Right. Uh, let me just….” He rushed over to a worn dresser, rummaging in the top drawer until he pulled out a key. “Let me just unlock those.”

“That would be nice,” Buffy sniffed.

Spike hurried over and fit the key to the manacles. He seemed to be at least trying to avert his eyes from her half-nakedness, if he wasn’t quite succeeding.

When her right hand was free, she slapped him.

“Bloody hell, woman,” he grumbled, unlocking her left hand. “All right, I probably deserved that.”

She slapped him with that hand, too.

“Sodding _hell_ , Slayer!” Spike glared at her, stomping over to the bed where Drusilla had tossed her clothes. “It’s not like this was my bloody idea.” He threw the clothes at her.

She caught them and started to dress as fast as she could. “That’s the only reason you’re not dust in the wind, jerkwad.”

He looked away, face closed. “Buffy, I--”

“Stifle it!” Buffy fastened up her jeans, casting her eyes around the room for her boots.

“Do I at least get to know what I--” He swallowed convulsively. “What did I do?”

“Oh, not much,” Buffy said breezily. “Just, you know, let your wackadoo girlfriend chain me up, molested me, made me spend way too much time trying to figure out what you were trying to say to me when you weren’t actually saying anything. Oh, and you tried to tell me you love me.”

Spike’s head shot up, eyes narrow. “Buffy, I do--”

“You know, if you hadn’t been mind-controlled, you’d be in deep trouble right now,” Buffy went on, not in the mood to listen to his excuses. “It was Drusilla on that stupid death train, wasn’t it? She’s been controlling you this whole time.”

“Buffy--”

She planted her hands on her hips. “Do you know how much I was freaking out? I even had Willow doing a disinvite spell on my house, just because it was so freaksome.”

Spike’s mouth snapped shut. “Really,” he said at last through gritted teeth.

“Really!” Buffy took a deep breath, trying to calm down. “I guess it wasn’t your fault. It’s kind of a relief, knowing it was all Drusilla making trouble.”

He nodded warily. “Right. All Drusilla’s doing.” He walked jerkily over to where he’d gotten the stake and tucked it back under the sheet, adjusting the drape of the fabric fussily. Like Buffy cared about his weapons stash!

“I should have known better.” She managed a brittle laugh. “Like you’d actually fall in love with me!”

“Ludicrous,” he said quietly.

“I knew Dawn was full of it. She’s only fifteen, what does she know about love?”

Spike shrugged, still watching her.

“So!” Buffy smiled bravely. “Let’s just pretend none of this ever happened, okay?”

Spike was silent for a long moment before nodding, sharp as a blade. “Right. Never happened.”

“Good. That way I don’t have to kill you.” Buffy nodded decisively, looking around. “So, um, where’s the exit?” Ugh, skulls. Spike needed a decorator in here, stat.

He jerked his head sullenly towards a wooden ladder.

Buffy gave him a final nod and another determined, brilliant smile and headed up the ladder, which led to his crypt. How had she never noticed this huge slab of stone at the back? Obvious underground access. Spike should be more careful.

Partway home, she stopped and called Willow to cancel the unnecessary disinvite. Not that she wanted Spike hanging around, not at all. It was just that her mom kind of liked him, and Dawn would pitch a fit if she had to invite him in the next time he came by to talk stupid amphorae and stuff. Dawn fits were to be avoided at all costs; being a mystical Key hadn’t made her any less of an annoying teenager.

Anyhow, it was a total relief. Spike wasn’t in love with her after all. _Such_ a relief. That would have been just too awful to deal with. Completely terrible.

Although…. She frowned as she turned onto Revello Drive. It was a teensy bit disappointing, Spike not being infatuated with her. It had been creepy, and gross, and completely unacceptable, but it had also been… a little flattering. She’d felt kind of, well, extra attractive, that she could get a vampire who hated her to want her. Now that it turned out he didn’t want her, it felt… just a little flat.

Why _wasn't_ Spike in love with her?

*

Dawn pushed open the door of Spike’s crypt, glancing around nervously. Buffy would be so pissed if she knew she’d come by the graveyard again, but… she really needed to talk to Spike, and he hadn’t come around for, like, two days. For all she knew, he’d skipped town.

He was there, though, slumped in his armchair, bottle of gross booze in his hand. Perfect. She’d known if she came by when Passions was airing he’d be awake. If he was there. Which he was. So.

“Go away, Bit,” he growled before she’d taken two steps inside. “Big sis doesn’t need any more reasons to stake me.”

Dawn dropped her backpack and stomped on over so she could glare down her nose at him. “She won’t stake you. She thinks you’re harmless.” She set her chin and waited for the explosion.

He just sighed, taking a swig of his stinky booze. “Bugger off.”

“No.”

A commercial started on his dinky TV, and he finally looked at Dawn. “What the hell do you want?”

“You look awful.” He did, like he hadn’t slept in weeks. Did vampires need to sleep?

“I’m bloody well dead,” he groused. “‘Course I look awful.”

Dawn strolled over to the TV, watching the commercials play. “More awful than you used to.”

“Wages of sin, Niblet.” He took another drink.

She turned, planting herself between him and the TV screen. “I’m not stupid,” she said loftily. “I know the truth.”

“What, that the bloody Great Pumpkin doesn’t exist? Bugger off.”

“No. I know that you really _are_ in love with Buffy.”

He shot to his feet, chin sticking out. “Bugger. Off. Don’t bloody need to be staked.”

Dawn rolled her eyes. _God,_ he was such a drama queen! “I’m not here to threaten you.”

He glared at her, sniffing. “Then what the hell are you here for?”

She smiled. “I’m here to help you.”

His belligerence melted into confusion. “What?”

Dawn folded her arms. “I don’t know if you noticed, but Buffy has terrible taste in men.” Angel had been condescending and rude -- she supposed those were fake memories, but they were based in reality, right? So if she’d existed then, he would have been rude to her. Riley hadn’t been as rude, but he’d been worse in some ways -- always digging for stuff he could be mopey about, and treating Buffy like he was her commanding officer or something. And then he’d left and made Buffy cry just when Mom had been super sick. Stupid jerk.

Spike shrugged. “So?”

“So, if I have to put up with her having a boyfriend, I’d rather it be someone cool.” Dawn matched his shrug. “Someone like you. So I want to help.”

He flopped back down in his chair, eyeing her suspiciously. “And just how do you expect to do that?”

“I have the inside scoop,” she said, feeling superior. “I can tell you how to get Buffy to fall in love with you.”

“Do tell.” Spike rolled his eyes, picking up his bottle again.

Dawn smiled. “For starters, all you have to do is protect me.”

*

Spike peered around the corner of the liquor store, watching the scabby sackcloth-demon hurrying off with a paper bag of Champagne and orange juice. Liked her mimosas, did the snooty hell-bitch -- that had been the rumor floating around the underground -- and this being the only place in all Sunnydale that stocked real capital-C Champagne, he'd taken a chance on a stakeout, and hit the jackpot.

Dawn had acted like it was so bloody easy. _Take care of Glory and Buffy will be, like, super grateful. She'll totally want to give you a chance then._ Spike could have told her it wouldn't be that simple; the slayer wasn't easily bought by good deeds, especially when they were performed by someone of the evil persuasion. Not to mention the fact that Glory had swiftly and thoroughly kicked his ass the last time he'd helped fight her. Still, a fellow had to try, and he'd not mind his Niblet being safe. She might be an immature brat, but she had a knack for larceny and a smart mouth that Spike liked, along with bravery that bordered on stupidity. Or stupidity that bordered on bravery. Whichever it was, it was entertaining. He liked Joyce, too, that ladylike demeanor and the way she liked to ply a fellow with hot beverages. So he’d be doing her a favour as well.

And he'd bloody well do anything for Buffy's smile.

When the leprous hobbit was a little ways down the block, Spike casually rounded the corner of the building, sauntering down the street like he owned it, like he didn't fucking care that his direction happened to be the same as the scurrying minion. He'd long since mastered the subtle art of tracking prey, especially the most important rule: don't fucking look like you're trying not to be noticed. That sneaky shite might work for lions on the savannah, but in an urban setting, dashing from shadow to shadow might as well be lighting a bloody neon arrow that read "untrustworthy individual here!" It was far more effective to just not care if people bloody noticed you and act like you knew exactly where you were going. Hiding in plain sight.

Spike was blazingly noticeable; he was good at being obvious, and also good at not caring, and bloody brilliant at tracking.

Which was why it was such a surprise when he got caught.

Now that he was hanging from his wrists in a posh penthouse flat, surrounded by Glory's sycophantic zealot minions, he was beginning to think that listening to Dawn hadn't been such a good idea in the first place.

Fortunately, the minions were rubbish at questioning.

"Why were you following Dreg?" one of them demanded.

"Liked the look of his arse," Spike replied with a vicious grin.

Everyone dubiously looked at the hobbit in question's rear end. He drew himself up in offense. "What do you know about... the Key?" 

"Which Key?"

"Glory's Key."

"To this flat?"

"No, the mystical Key that will allow her to return to her rightful place, you fool!"

"How's this Key do that, then?"

"We will conduct a ritual, and through the power of the Key, the walls between dimensions will fall, and Glory will return to her home dimension to rule as tyrant."

"The Key does all that? What's this Key look like, then?"

The hobbits glanced around at each other. "We do not know."

"And how's it open these dimensional walls?"

"There is a ritual," Dreg huffed. "On the appointed day, we--" He broke off, glaring at Spike suspiciously. "That's none of your concern."

Spike shrugged as best he could in his bondage. "Just trying to help you find your Key. Where'd you last see it?"

The minions exchanged uncomfortable looks. "We have never laid eyes on the Key. Only the great Glory herself has seen it."

"Well, that's bloody useless." Spike looked around the room, noting that the windows had lightened. Bloody daylight. Of bloody course. "Have you checked in the couch cushions?"

One of the minions scurried over to the plush sofa, frantically pulling off the cushions before drawing up short and glaring poisonously at Spike.

"What the hell are you guys doing?"

That was a man's voice behind Spike. He tried to subtly crane his neck to get a peek, but the man gave a grunt and there was an odd crunching sound, followed by a feminine sigh of disgust.

"Ugh. Scrubs? Again?" That was Glory's voice. Bloody hell.

Half of the hobbits rushed towards the door. "We rejoice at your return, O Most Radiant One!" one of them burbled. "We shall fetch you appropriate raiment immediately."

"Obviously," Glory sniffed. There was a sound of fabric rustling. "And _why_ is there a vampire hanging from my ceiling?"

"He was following Dreg. We think he may know something about the Key."

"Really?" Glory stepped into Spike's view then, still settling a red silk frock over her hips. "I know you. You're the slayer's boyfriend."

He forced a grin. "I'm not her boyfriend."

"Too bad." She smiled. "Let's find out what you know anyhow, 'kay?"

Glory turned out to be bloody brilliant at questioning.

God knew how many hours later, bruised and bleeding, Spike had subsided into semi-consciousness, legs buckled and wrists stretched painfully by the chains. The last bout of torture had nearly done him in, and he'd faked a faint, letting his eyes roll back and then close, and sagging bonelessly, and through an excruciating effort of will halting the pained gasps he'd been heaving -- useful not to have to breathe, but _bloody hell_ it was hard not to have that outlet for his pain. Still, it seemed to have worked. At least Glory had stopped torturing him for the moment.

"I don't think the vampire knows anything," she grumbled. “I should just kill him.”

"With the humblest of worship," one of the minions twittered, "his defiance does seem to indicate he is hiding something."

"Probably just the secret to how he gets his hair so white." She sighed in annoyance. "But I'll try again in a bit. Is my mimosa ready yet?

"Jinx is squeezing the oranges now, Most Patient Thou. And Dreg has properly mortified his flesh for the sin of presenting you with… _bottled_ orange juice." The minion's voice dripped with disdain.

"Yeah, whatever. Just make sure-- no! Not now!"

Spike cracked an eyelid the tiniest bit at the exclamation. Glory was standing, fists clenched in fury.

"Dammit! Ben always does this at the worst times! I hate being bound to this worthless lump of--" Her voice cut off, and there was that crunching noise again, and she shifted and morphed and then she was a he, thick body stretching the limits of the red silk. Dark hair, dark eyes, square chin, completely horrified expression on his face as he looked around the room. When his gaze approached Spike, he quickly closed his cracked eye.

"What the hell is Glory-- No. Don't tell me. I don't want to know."

"She merely wishes to know what this… _vampire…_ knows about the Key."

"I said don't tell me!"

"Very well. Er, would you like a mimosa? Fresh-squeezed!"

"Dammit, it's eight thirty? Is that PM? What day is this?"

"Thursday, O Most Holy Vessel."

"Stop calling me that! I'm late for my shift." A door opened and closed, and Spike chanced trying to look again. The minions were standing around, awkwardly glancing at each other; one of them held an elegantly garnished tray bearing a single mimosa flute. A few minutes later, the dark-haired man -- Ben, Glory had said? -- came out of a corner room, dressed in medical scrubs. He glared at the minions and rushed right past the one offering the drink and out the door.

Awkward silence resumed, and with Glory apparently gone to her-- _his_ day job, Spike felt safe dropping the act. He took a quick, loud, elaborately-pained breath, got his legs back under him, and opened his eyes. The minions were all staring at him now.

Spike looked around in dramatic confusion, eyes finally settling on the drink.

"That for me?" he asked with a grin.

*

Dawn was worried. Spike hadn't been at his crypt when she'd stopped by after school yesterday, and okay, so maybe he'd had something to do, but he also hadn't stopped by to ask to watch her mom's Passions video since he'd missed it, and Spike was never _that_ busy, not with the chip in his head. Plus he hadn't come around to offer to help Buffy, either. And now it was time for Passions again, and he wasn't here _again._ Spike cared about two things these days, television and Buffy, and if he wasn't watching either of them… something was wrong.

Dawn rushed over to the armchair, lifting up the cushion and picking up the slim leather-bound journal underneath. Spike had promised her he'd write down everything he found out about Glory, and he'd shown her the journal and where he was going to keep it, treating her like she was a partner and not a kid, which was why she liked him. He wasn't like Giles, writing stuff about her in secret, or Buffy, who wouldn't tell her what was going on at all -- they were trying to protect her, she got that, but she had always hated not knowing things, ever since she was a kid, and okay, so she hadn't ever actually been a kid, but the monks had given her this personality and these feelings, right? They'd made her so she wanted to know things, so maybe she was supposed to know things. Spike got that. He got her.

And he was missing.

Stuffing the journal into her backpack, she ran out the door.

*

Buffy walked through the early morning light, mind racing.

When Dawn had come to her the night before, shaking and crying and worried about _Spike_ , of all people, Buffy had wanted to just ignore her. Sure, Spike had been helping out a lot the past week or so without even asking for money, and she'd found out she could rely on him in a fight, and he'd been properly apologetic about that mind-control-love thing and not even hinted that he might ever want to possibly let the words _I love you_ cross his lips -- _such_ a relief! -- but he was still a vampire, so she was kind of by law supposed to not care what happened to him. Even if he was kind of acting like a Scooby now.

But then Dawn had shown her the journal.

The dates didn't go back that far, but there was a lot written in there, page after page of old-fashioned scrawling about who he'd talked to, what they'd said about Glory, rumors and hearsay and deductions. Here a bit was crossed out with the words _fucking lie_ scribbled in the margins. There a section was circled, something about concierge service and sales of silk sheets. And at the very end was a terse scribbled note.

_ Mimosas. Bloody snob. Follow the fucking minions down the yellow brick road. _

It had felt like he was talking in code again, nonsense code, but this time she'd understood.

"I bet Glory has him," she'd told the hastily-assembled Scoobies.

"And we care… why?" Xander had asked, baffled.

"Because…" Buffy had paused. Why did she care? Because she kind of did. That was weird. "Because he helps us out. He did all this work finding information about Glory, so we can protect Dawn." She'd held up the journal like a shield.

"But can we trust him?" Willow's eyes had been worried.

"Of course we can trust him!" Dawn had screeched before Buffy had been able to answer that in her head.

"He knows Dawn is the Key," Giles had said slowly. “So whether we trust him or not…. Even if he withstands any torture she brings to bear, she may have… ways of extracting the information from him.” He’d adjusted his glasses, looking uncomfortable.

“So we have to get him back,” Buffy had said firmly, ignoring the flood of relief inside her.

Dawn had squealed in joy before her face fell. “But we don’t know where he is.”

Buffy had thought for a moment. “Remember that snake demon? I bet it was heading back to Glory when I killed it. We can start there.”

So they’d loaded up on weapons and trekked through the streets to that park -- all of them but Dawn, even though she’d thrown a fit at not being included, because _duh!_ \-- and Buffy had stood just where she’d killed the snake, scanning the twilight horizon.

“I think it was headed that way,” she said at last, pointing at an expensive-looking high-rise. _Likes things posh_ , Spike had written. “Does that look posh to you?”

And it had been right after all -- they’d entered the gleaming lobby just as a bunch of Glory’s minions rushed down the stairwell, and the elevator door had opened, and there had been Spike, all bruised and bloodied and bristling with defiance, and he’d seen Buffy, their eyes had met, and she didn’t know what that expression had been in his eyes but he’d wilted just after, collapsing like a marionette in the elevator, his legs sticking out just far enough to keep the door from closing. When they’d beaten the minions back up the stairs, Buffy had gathered him up -- carefully, he was really fragged -- and they’d run, keeping an eye out for pursuit.

Nobody had followed them.

Buffy had kind of wanted to take Spike back to her house, but before she could say anything Giles had suggested they deliver him to his crypt, which, okay, made sense, her mom would probably freak seeing him like this, so Willow and Anya had gone to tell Dawn the good news and Xander and Giles had come with her and helped her get Spike settled on top of the sarcophagus upstairs -- he’d be more comfortable in the bed downstairs, she knew, but she’d have to get him down the ladder, and she also didn’t know if Giles and Xander even knew about the downstairs.

She kind of didn’t want to tell them. It seemed… rude.

When he was finally laid out, still unconscious and kind of whimpery even in his unconsciousness, they had all just… looked at him. God, he was a mess.

Finally, Giles had removed his glasses to clean them -- they were actually kind of dirty for once, from the fight. “We have to know what he told Glory,” he’d said quietly.

“I’ll stay,” Buffy had replied, just as quietly. “When he wakes up, I’ll ask.” She’d glanced at Xander, who was staring at Spike, looking kind of sick. “You guys’ll take care of Dawn?”

“I can stay,” Giles had sighed.

“No.” Buffy had wrapped her arms around her body, feeling… she wasn’t sure how she was feeling. “I think this is something I have to do for myself.”

So she’d kept vigil through the night, pacing around the crypt and sitting in his chair and thinking, and just a bit after sunrise, he’d finally awakened with a harsh gasp, half-sitting up before he hissed in pain and lay back down, eyes closing.

Buffy had walked over and just looked down at him. “You shouldn’t move too much. I think you may have some cracked ribs.”

His eyes had flown open again. “Dawn?”

“Probably burning me in effigy because I made her stay home.”

“Right.” He’d relaxed again. “That’s all right then.”

“Does Glory know?”

Only one eye had opened that time. “Know what?”

“About the Key.”

He’d chuckled painfully. “Yeah, I told her all about the Key. Bloody bitch.” He’d grinned up at Buffy then, kind of loopy. “Told her the Key was Bob Barker.”

Buffy had smiled despite herself. “So should we expect her to come on down, she’s the next contestant on The Price is Right?”

“Didn’t buy it,” Spike had wheezed, sitting up after all. “She thinks I’m a fucking liar.”

“You are.”

“I am.”

Buffy had sighed then, relieved, wondering why she didn’t feel all that surprised. “Why?”

Spike’s chin had gone up. “Why am I a liar? I’m bloody _evil_.”

“Why didn’t you tell?”

Spike had looked at her for a long time, then, with both eyes, and there was that expression again, that expression she didn’t recognize, that expression that made her shiver. “Couldn’t do it to… to Dawn. Not to Dawn, or to Joyce, or… or to you.” He’d shrugged negligently, looking away. “If anything ever happened to Dawn, it’d destroy… it’d destroy Joyce. I couldn't live with y-- her being in that much pain. Let Glory kill me first. Nearly bloody did.”

She’d kissed him.

He’d leaned into it for a moment, just for a moment, before pulling away with a gasp and looking at her like she was crazy, and okay, yeah, she’d known he wasn’t in love with her, so of course he’d freaked out, and so she’d stepped back and said something inane about being super, super grateful, and he’d shrugged and said how he didn’t need gratitude, and then he’d said there was something important she ought to know, and he’d said it, and then she’d said thank you again and left, wondering why she felt so shaken.

Now, walking through the morning light, it didn’t seem real, the way his lips had felt against hers, cool and smooth and trembling; she touched her lips now, remembering. Why had she kissed him?

Okay, so he’d been weirdly attractive, all covered in bruises. That wasn’t hard to admit. He’d always been physically attractive, she could admit that, it was just that what was inside was so vile that it cancelled it all out. Except he hadn’t been vile, not recently. He’d been… kind of okay. Helping and fighting by her side and even pitching in on research, and reading that journal of his had been a revelation, because he’d gone really, really above and beyond. She’d been in defensive mode, trying to protect Dawn from Glory, trying to hide her, and meanwhile Spike had gone on the offensive for her, and he’d paid the price. And somewhere in the night, she’d realized he looked… beautiful.

And she’d wanted to kiss him.

She frowned. What was that thing Spike had said to her? The important thing? She thought back as hard as she could, but the words just wouldn’t form in her brain. She could picture his face, earnest and urgent, and he said _Buffy, there’s something important you need to know,_ and then he said… something in code? And then he said _all right? So if you just take care of that, Dawn will be safe._

It was probably something stupid anyhow. If it was important, he wouldn’t have said it in some made-up code. Heck, it probably wasn’t even code at all, probably just gibberish. Stupid vampire.

See if she ever kissed him again!

*

It took Spike less than a day to figure out that Buffy hadn’t done a damn thing about his pretty fucking important revelation that Glory turned into some medical fellow named Ben who worked a night shift, probably at Sunnydale Memorial, and so when the Scoobies gathered the next night to discuss the fact that they now knew where Glory lived and what should they do about it, he’d tried again.

It had gone all right to start. His news that the Key was intended to open a door to another dimension, allowing Glory to return home? Greeted with grim stoicism but clear understanding. The revelation that there was some ritual that would perform that task at an appointed time? Buffy had hugged Dawn tightly, curtly asking if Spike had learned when that time was, nodding in acceptance that he had not.

The news that Ben was Glory? Beating his bloody head against a wall.

“Buffy,” he’d said. “Have you had any luck finding this Ben?”

“Ben?” She’d blinked. “Ben the intern?”

“That’d be the bloke. So you know him already?”

“Yeah. We all met him when Mom was in for her surgery. What about him?”

“Ben is Glory.”

They’d all stared at him blankly.

“What?” Buffy finally asked, perplexed.

“Ben. Ben the medical intern. He’s Glory.”

Willow shared a concerned glance with Xander. “You mean Ben’s with Glory?”

“Are they... dating?”

“No,” Spike snapped, starting to lose patience. “Ben. Medical bloke. Turns into Glory. They're the same bloody creature.”

“Oh,” Buffy said, face clearing in comprehension. “You’re saying we should… ask Ben about Glory? Does he live in that same building?”

“Rather pricey for an intern,” Giles said thoughtfully, and possibly a bit resentfully.

Spike jumped to his feet. “No. No. Ben is Glory. Glory's Ben. They're one and the same.”

Buffy stood as well. “Calm down, Spike. Are you saying you think Ben… knows Glory?”

“I watched bloody Glory turn into bloody Ben right before my bloody eyes!” They all continued to stare at him blankly. “Is everyone here very stoned? Ben! Glory! He's a doctor, she's the beast. Two entirely separate entities sharing one body. Like a bloody sitcom.”

Xander nodded sagely. “So you're saying... Ben and Glory…”

“...have a connection!” Anya continued, squeezing Xander’s hand proudly.

Giles stroked his chin. “Yes, obviously, but what kind?”

It went round and round like that for some time, Spike trying to find new and exciting ways to say the three words “Ben is Glory” to get it through their thick skulls, the Scoobies finding even more new and infuriating ways to not bloody get it. He finally almost managed it, walking them through it word by word.

“ _Ben._ Do you understand that?”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “God, Spike. We’re not stupid. Ben. Intern guy.”

“All right, then. _Is._ Do you understand that one?”

“Third person singular present of the verb _to be_. Yes, I _may_ understand that,” Giles said, sarcasm dripping from his voice.

“Right. Gold star for the watcher. Now. _Glory._ Do you bloody understand that word?”

Willow scoffed. “Well, yeah. That’s who we’re trying to save Dawnie from.”

“Right then. Let’s put it all together. _Ben is._ ”

“Ben is what?” Anya leaned forward eagerly. “The suspense is killing me! What is Ben?”

Spike took a deep breath. “Ben is Glory.”

“ _Ben_ is Glory?” Buffy frowned.

“Ben _is_ Glory?” mused Giles, taking off his glasses.

“Ben is _Glory_?” Xander muttered, brow furrowed.

“Oh!” Willow’s eyes widened. “ _Ben is Glory!_ ”

Spike sighed in relief. “Finally.”

“Excellent,” Giles said, replacing his glasses. “Now. Do we suspect there may be some kind of connection between Ben and Glory?”

Spike had growled and gone to pour himself more whiskey.

Obviously there was some sort of glamour or spell that kept human brains from processing the connection, that he was somehow immune to -- but bloody hell, Buffy needed to bloody _know_ this.

He’d kept on trying, of course -- slipping it into the middle of unrelated sentences, writing it on notecards and handing them off, singing it, tapping it out on the table in Morse Code, even changing the words on the church marquee down the street from Buffy’s house to read “BINGO FRIDAY BEN IS GLORY,” but not a damn thing worked. It was like trying to explain physics to a bloody cat, in bloody Klingon.

Spike managed to locate Ben himself a few nights later, when the Scoobies all went to a party at Buffy’s dorm, though as soon as he saw the intern’s face Spike ducked out of sight. While he wasn’t sure he’d be recognizable -- Dawn had told him he’d looked like a zombie Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man when he’d been freed from Glory, which was when Ben had seen his face, and now apparently he had healed enough to look like himself, “but a lot more purple and green and kinda yellow in a couple places” -- it wouldn’t do to take chances, and so he watched from a distance as Buffy chatted with the bastard, completely fucking unaware that he was the presumably-human alter ego of the hellbitch trying to take her sister.

He took a chance at being recognized, though, just to test, weaving through the crowd until he was close enough to shove violently past the bloke, hiding his face. It set his chip off, sending him reeling up against a pillar, so this Ben was human, all right. Which should mean he had human weaknesses. Which should mean that Buffy could take him out easily, right? If only she could bloody get it into her head that she should stop bloody flirting and just bloody kill the bastard.

All right, she probably wouldn’t _kill_ him, seeing as he was human, but… she’d do _something,_ right?

Spike would bloody do it for her, but… he didn’t fucking know what the chip would do if he tried. Thus far, he’d been incapacitated any time he’d even bloody tried to hurt a human, the pain blinding before he got far enough to even do any serious damage. He might not be able to do the job. He might be able to do the job, but end up a bloody vegetable, or dust from the electric shocks -- and what if he perished in the attempt and failed, leaving Buffy none the wiser? He was bloody well helpless.

He even briefly considered hiring an assassin, but… the sad truth was, this Glory chippie was gaining popularity among the demons of Sunnydale. It had been hard enough to gather information, and that was with her bloody groupies merrily waxing eloquent at the drop of a hat. He didn’t think he could find anyone willing to do the job, even if he hadn’t spent more than a year systematically alienating the entire demon community. His money was no good in the underworld of Sunnydale -- even if he had money, which he didn’t, now that he’d started helping Buffy for free. Ironic, that.

He was still pondering the conundrum of how Ben-slash-Glory could be taken out when literally every human willing to do something was unable to hold the idea in their mushy human brains long enough to do the thing when the party was crashed by some robot bird looking for a fellow named Warren. Literally crashed, as she’d thrown some poor sod out through the window. But Buffy had been on the case, and these days, when Buffy was on the case, so was Spike. He shrugged and joined in the research party.

There would be plenty of time to deal with Ben tomorrow.

*

Spike stood in the corner of the hospital waiting room for a long time, not really being noticed by Buffy or Dawn, and not much caring. The doctor had just spoken to Buffy, the usual bloody empty words -- sudden, no pain, nothing that could have been done -- and the watcher was taking care of the paperwork, and the girls were surrounded by their friends, and there wasn’t a bloody thing Spike could do. Not here.

He glanced at the clock. Should be about time now.

He slipped away, strolling casually down the hall, until he reached the breakroom, just past the employees’ locker room. He’d stopped in there earlier, checking the posted schedule, and there he was, right on time. Humble human intern having a solitary meal break.

Spike seated himself across from Ben, who looked up, alarmed.

“Who are you?”

“Friend of the Summers family,” Spike said softly. “You remember Joyce?”

Ben’s confusion cleared into worry. “Is everything all right?”

“There were… complications.” Spike couldn’t say the rest of it, it was too raw, but the intern seemed to catch his meaning.

“No.” Ben set his fork down. “I’m so sorry.”

“They’re settling it now,” Spike went on. “Buffy had mentioned you, said how kind you’d been to Dawn, and I thought you should know.”

That was a bit of discomfort on Ben’s face at the mention of Dawn. Spike had thought there might be. Now that he knew the truth, Dawn’s story of what had happened at the hospital that night with Glory made much more sense. Ben knew something about Dawn, he probably knew she was the Key.

And if Ben knew, Glory would eventually find out.

“I’m so sorry,” Ben said at last. “Please pass on my condolences.”

“Of course.” Spike looked straight into Ben’s eyes, taking his measure. “Joyce was--” His voice caught and he started over. “Joyce was a fine lady, and her daughters mean the world to me. There’s not much I wouldn’t do for them.”

Ben cleared his throat, eyes shifting nervously. “Are you all right? No offense, but you look like….”

Spike shrugged. “Car wreck. Nothing to fret over. It’ll be mended soon.”

“Right.” Ben looked down at his half-eaten plate of food. “Um, I--”

“I’ll leave you to it, mate,” Spike said easily, standing. “Just wanted to pass on the news.”

Ben nodded soberly, picking up his fork again, and Spike walked past him, his mind clear and his thoughts blank _don’t think it don’t think it don’t think it_ and just as he brushed past Ben’s chair he turned, as fast as he could but the chip was faster, the pain already kicking in but he kept moving _faster faster bloody hell don’t stop_ his hands reached out, and _god_ he was in agony already, his hands moving slow as treacle though he knew they were like lightning, just the pain the _pain_ and he felt his teeth clench hard enough to break and kept his hands moving because Joyce was gone, Joyce was _gone_ , she’d never laugh about bloody amphorae or fix him a cuppa or hug her daughters, not ever again, and he couldn’t save her, he hadn’t saved her, but he could do this, he could push through this pain and give her a gift, the gift of Dawn’s life, he could bloody well _do_ this but _god the pain_ _god god goddamn bloody fucking hell_ and his hands were on Ben’s head now, gripping tight and Ben knew what was happening now, the bastard, but Spike wasn’t bloody stopping, he squeezed and twisted, channeling the pain into strength and oh god he couldn’t bear it, it was going to kill him, he knew it, but he would give this to Joyce, too, give his life to let her rest in bloody peace and he kept on squeezing and kept on twisting until he felt it, felt the snap, the crack of Ben’s spine and the pain god the pain pain _pain_ it crested and crested higher and higher and he felt himself falling, met Ben’s dead eyes as he fell through the pain and in the pain and under the pain and it was all pain, his world was agony and when the blackness came he welcomed it like a lover, embracing oblivion, embracing his own death, because this had to be death, it had to be, and he felt his consciousness dissipate, felt the world and the pain slide away, and he smiled.

And he was gone.

*

“Where’d she go?”

Buffy wanted to tell Dawn not to touch the body, but it was too late, Dawn’s fingers had brushed the skin, and then her sister shoved herself to her feet, scrambling back towards Buffy, and Buffy held her tight, let her cry for just a bit, but when the initial torrent of tears had faded, she stroked Dawn’s hair and looked firmly into her bright, wet eyes.

“We have to go, Dawnie,” she said, making her voice stronger than she felt. “We’re not supposed to be in here.” She glanced at the vampire dust on the cold, hard floor. “Especially since one of their bodies just disappeared.”

Dawn nodded, shaking, and let Buffy take her hand and draw her out the door.

Halfway down the hall, Buffy staggered and fell against the wall, dimly aware that Dawn had fallen, too, but not able to feel anything but the memories that had crashed into her like a freight train, Spike’s voice saying things she’d never heard, except she had, she’d heard them, she just… hadn’t understood.

_ Buffy, there’s something important you need to know, there’s some bloke named Ben, dunno who he is but he’s some sort of doctor, and he turns into Glory. Ben is Glory. If you find him, you can take down Glory. All right? So if you just take care of that, Dawn will be safe. _

_ Have you had any luck finding this Ben? _

_ Ben. Medical bloke. Turns into Glory. They're the same bloody creature. _

_ Ben is Glory. Glory's Ben. They're one and the same. _

_ I watched bloody Glory turn into bloody Ben right before my bloody eyes! Ben! Glory! He's a doctor, she's the beast. Two entirely separate entities sharing one body. Like a bloody sitcom. _

_ Ben is Glory. Ben is Glory. BenisGlory-- _

“Oh, my god. Oh, god.”

“Buffy!” Dawn was by her side then, eyes wide, panicked. “I remember. I remember. I saw Ben, he turned into Glory, he--”

Buffy rushed into the waiting room, Dawn on her heels _don’t run don’t run don’t run_ and she drew up before her friends, who were staring at her with the same terrible knowledge in their eyes, they all knew, they all remembered and _god_ , what had happened? “Where’s Spike?”

They all looked at the corner where he’d been, but he wasn’t there, and Buffy vaguely remembered that now, too, remembered seeing his coat swishing off into the hallway while she was huddled there in her grief, and she turned to Dawn, taking her gently by the shoulders.

“Where was it? Where did Ben…?”

Dawn nodded, shaking, and led Buffy down the hall, both of them moving fast, except Dawn’s footsteps slowed to a stop as they approached what looked like a breakroom, and Buffy gave her a swift hug.

“Wait here. If you see anything bad, run.”

Buffy approached the door with swift caution, darting glances down the empty hallway, and she saw Spike first, his booted feet twitching spasmodically, his whole body jerking like in some old Frankenstein movie, and then she saw Ben, dead eyes staring up at the ceiling, and oh god. _Oh, god!_

“Go back to Giles, Dawn,” she hissed as loud as she dared, dropping to her knees, and she touched Spike first, feeling an electrical shock zing up her fingertips, but what could she even check? He didn’t have a pulse, he didn’t have to breathe, he was dead already, not dust but dead, and so she checked Ben, quickly, and he was dead all right, Ben was dead, Glory was dead, Spike had killed them, and god she had to get Spike out, make sure Dawn was gone, and she scooped up Spike in her arms but god she couldn’t just carry him through the hospital like that, so she rushed next door to the locker room, grabbing a lab coat, buttoning it over her regular clothes, and then a bit further down the hall there was an empty gurney, so she laid Spike out and covered him with the sheet and he was still twitching, god, still sending tiny electric zaps through her wherever she touched, and she made her feet move slow and she wheeled him down the hall, trying to look casual even though she felt like throwing up, and when she reached the waiting room she walked straight up to Giles, taking off the lab coat.

“You look more doctory than me,” she said shortly. “Get him out of here.”

Giles put on the coat. “What happened?”

“Ben’s Glory,” she said shortly. “And now he’s dead.”

He nodded sharply in comprehension, hand gripping her shoulder. “The paperwork you need to sign is on the table. Perhaps we should all go home.” He buttoned up the coat and wheeled Spike away.

And so Buffy signed the paperwork with shaking hands, hearing the sudden squawked announcements, the rush of feet that meant Ben’s body had been discovered, but she calmly signed everywhere Giles had noted, feeling Dawn huddled up against her side, her friends surrounding her, supporting her. She spared a moment's sick gratitude for the criminally-lax security at Sunnydale Memorial, and soon the rush of emergency in the halls was over and then some intern came out to collect the paperwork, and it was done. It was done.

Her mother was officially dead.

And so was Glory.

*

Spike was floating, dust in the wind, he could almost hear the bloody Kansas song floating with him, _all we are is dust in the wind_ , the sun sparkling through his fragments and bits and bobs, except no, he was falling, falling into hell, Ben’s eyes and Dru’s eyes and Dawn’s eyes and Joyce’s eyes and Buffy’s eyes all watching him fall and he fell and fell and fell until…

He landed.

Huh. Why was being dead… soft?

He opened his eyes and stared at what seemed like a perfectly normal ceiling, not what he’d expect of hell at all, kind of a taupey-beige, and then his eyes traveled down, across beige flocked wallpaper, floral chintz curtains, table lamp, bedside table draped in more chintz, and he looked down at his hand, resting on even more chintz -- what the bloody buggering fuck was up with the chintz? Which bloody circle of hell was chintz? -- except past his hand was a head, a head of brown hair, and he frowned and reached out because that head didn’t belong here in hell, and he sat up and touched the head, soft warm smooth hair, and it jerked away from his touch, and Dawn sat up and stared at him like he was the Great Pumpkin come at last, mouth gaping like a goldfish.

“Buffy!” she shrieked at last. “Buffy, come quick!”

Spike dizzily turned his gaze to the doorway -- no chintz there, thank god -- and a moment later, Buffy appeared looking at him like… he didn’t know what that expression was, but he wished she’d always look at him like that, just like that, incomprehensibly radiant.

“You’re awake,” she said quietly.

Spike just kept looking at her as Dawn squealed and hugged him and shook him and hugged him and squealed again, and Buffy just stood there.

“Omigod, omigod,” Dawn babbled, pushing herself to standing and bouncing on her toes. “Can you believe it, Buffy? He’s awake! And he woke up when I was here! I can’t believe he woke up when it was my turn!”

Buffy smiled faintly, crossing her arms and leaning against the door frame, still looking at him, inscrutable, ineffable. “Xander’s going to be disappointed.”

“Does it hurt, Spike? Does your head hurt?”

Spike tore his eyes from Buffy at last and looked at Dawn again. “No?” he wondered dubiously.

“Omigod Buffy, it worked!”

“I guess it did,” Buffy said softly, and Spike’s gaze was drawn back to her, inevitably, like gravity.

Spike tried to say words, but his mouth was dry, and it took him a moment to get things going again. “This isn’t hell,” he managed at last, his throat feeling like it had been coated in asphalt.

Dawn rolled her eyes theatrically. “Don’t be so dramatic, Spike! You just had your chip go into, like, overdrive because you killed Ben-is-Glory, and so we had to get it taken out because it wouldn’t stop, and then you didn’t wake up after, so everyone thought maybe you’d be unconscious forever, but I told Buffy you’d wake up someday! And I was right!”

“You were right,” Buffy confirmed, and then she was turning and walking out the door, and Spike tried to leap to his feet, except his muscles wouldn’t work quite right -- they were there, they tried to move, but they had no strength.

“Buffy….” he croaked out.

“Buffy!” Dawn planted her hands on her hips. “Where are you going?”

“Patrol.” Buffy paused and turned her face back just enough so Spike could see the curve of her cheek. “I’ve been neglecting my sacred duty for months because some stupid vampire had to go get himself comatose saving the world.” And she was gone.

Dawn stuck out her tongue at the empty doorway before turning back to Spike, face alight. “I have to tell you everything that happened. It was totally cool -- I mean, it was kinda scary at the time, but that was a long time ago, now it’s cool -- like, when we all figured out Ben was Glory and you’d been trying to tell us all along, Buffy went and found you and we snuck you out of the hospital, and you were all, like, electric-shocky and stuff, and Giles wanted to hide you in his trunk but Buffy said no and she made him take you here and put you in Mom’s bed because she said she’d want that and then she called Angel to get him to find some surgeon-guy who operates on vampire brains and then she yelled at him because he was a jerk about you being on the team and he sent some guy down and it was super scary and Buffy watched the whole time to make sure he did it right and then when Angel came to Mom’s funeral she yelled at him some more and-- is she gone?”

Spike blinked, automatically listening. A moment later, he heard the front door close. “She’s gone?”

“All right.” Dawn folded her arms, face suddenly still and determined. “This is your chance.”

“What chance?”

She raised her eyebrows coolly. “Your chance to get Buffy to fall in love with you. All you have to do is play it cool.”

“Are you bloody mental?” Spike had to lie back down, he was feeling weak as a kitten. Also really bloody hungry. Fuck.

“This was all part of the plan,” Dawn breezed, then frowned. “Well, the months of unconsciousness thing was kind of not part of the plan, but it didn’t hurt.”

“Didn’t kill the bloody doctor to get Buffy,” Spike growled, clueing in. “Thought I was buying a one-way ticket to Dustenborough.”

That got a smile out of her again. “I know,” she said softly. “Thank you.”

“You’re bloody welcome.”

Her voice hardened again. “That doesn’t mean we can’t use this to our advantage. You did good on the protecting me part. Giles even said you might have saved the whole world. You were totally heroic. Now, like I said, just play it cool. Buffy--”

“Bit….” Spike sighed. “Slayer’s not going to fall head over heels for me just because I helped save the bloody world. She’d have twelve husbands and just as many wives, were that the case. People don’t fall in love over rubbish like that.”

“Nope. Buffy won’t love you because she’s grateful, or because I like you, or because Mom liked you, or even because you’re all muscley -- though I know she’s noticed that last bit. Buffy would only fall in love with you for a stupid reason, because that’s how love works, right? It just happens.”

“Right.”

Dawn grinned then. “Good thing you’re stupid.”

“Am not!”

“Are so. But Buffy’s stupider.”

“She’s bloody brilliant,” Spike muttered, though he knew it was just sibling insults, the kind you could only get away with when you loved someone enough. Dawn could say that about Buffy, and all right, she could say it about him, too, he didn’t mind so much. And Buffy... Buffy could say it any time, especially if she said it in that voice she’d used earlier.

_ I’ve been neglecting my sacred duty for months because some stupid vampire had to go get himself comatose saving the world. _

Even if she didn’t mean it the way he wanted. It was true either way. He was bloody well stupid, for her.

*

"Stupid vampire!" The punch connected with a satisfying crunch that immediately made her feel a little better.

"Who are you calling stupid?"

"Not you!" Buffy yelled at the vampire she was currently pummeling, some stinky not-British fledgeling still in his burial suit. "I can't believe him! He just wakes up and expects… okay, so he didn't ask for anything, but why did he take so long to wake up?!"

The stinky vamp growled. "I don't know! Go beat that guy up and ask him!"

She punched him in the chin. “Shut up! I’m trying to think here!”

She’d been thinking ever since Giles had driven them home from the hospital, Spike all quivering and draped across her lap in the back seat of his car. They’d gone past the church she went by every single day, the marquee proudly reading “BINGO FRIDAY BEN IS GLORY.” It had made her feel sick.

The answering machine light had been blinking, and after she’d got Spike settled upstairs, Dawn sitting by his side, she’d come downstairs alone and pressed the playback button.

“Slayer. Don’t delete this just ‘cause it’s me. Been putting off doing something because I was bloody afraid, but this is the only thing I can do for Joyce now. Hope it bloody well works. You’ll know if it doesn’t because Glory will still be after the Niblet and I’ll be gone. Be gone regardless, but hoping to take Glory with me on the highway to hell. So if I’m gone and that bitch isn’t, save this message. Listen to it every single bloody day until you understand this: Ben is Glory. Glory is Ben. If you didn’t understand those words I just said, try again. Keep trying. I won’t be seeing you on the other side, because no bloody way you aren’t bound for heaven, but… lift a glass for me sometime, all right? And tell Dawn I tried. ...Bloody hell, how long is your bloody message limit? I’m going to bloody dust, wanted to say it one last time, so here we go. Once more into the breach. Buffy, I--”

The answering machine had beeped, the message over.

She didn’t need to save the message, not anymore, but she had.

“Bingo Friday, my _ass_!” she shouted now, plunging her stake into the chest of the vamp, holding her breath as his stinky dust poofed into the wind.

Dammit. That had been over too soon -- she needed to find something else to beat up, pronto. She was still all confused.

She kept on being confused all night, but fortunately the forces of evil were all over the place, probably because she really had been slacking off, patrolling light when she patrolled at all.

“Why did he even _care_ about my mom and Dawn?” she demanded of a middle-aged vamp who looked like he’d been an accountant when he was alive.

“If he could fight through the stupid pain to kill somebody, why didn’t he ever kill _me_?” she shouted at a greenish demon whose claws had ripped a slash in her favorite jacket before she’d decapitated it.

“Why is he so _stupid_?” she’d railed at another vampire fledgeling, still trickling grave dirt.

She’d had a good long talk with an older vamp who had apparently been around since the seventies, from the hair, talking about the months of vigils at Spike’s bedside, how weird she’d felt the whole time, sitting there holding his hand and talking, even though he was unconscious.

“Why the hell do I feel like this?” she finally growled when they were locked in a deadly clinch.

“I don’t fucking care!” the vampire snarled back. Rude, much?

“It’s not fair! I feel all… all weird, and he’s awake now, and he doesn’t love me! Why doesn’t he love me?”

She staked the vampire, suddenly numb with realization.

She didn’t want Spike to love her, right? She’d been so relieved when it turned out he didn’t before, and then he’d been just another one of the Scoobies, helping out for his own stupid reasons, and okay, so that had been fine, he’d made her laugh and she’d depended on him and he’d been good to her mom and Dawn and… and all right, she’d been attracted to him, too, but that was normal, he was a good-looking guy when he wasn’t trying to kill her, and… oh, god.

What had the First Slayer said?

_ You are full of love. You love with all of your soul. It's brighter than the fire. Blinding. That's why you pull away from it. _

No. No, that wasn’t it. She wasn’t pulling away from…. It was Spike. It was only Spike. And okay, so she’d gone on the vision quest thingie in the first place because she was all confused about how she hadn’t been able to love Riley right, and how when Angel had come down she’d just wanted him to leave again, and in the meantime she’d been getting all sorts of tingles when she’d sat in her mom’s bedroom and held Spike’s hand, even after they’d gotten the still-firing chip out of his head. But it couldn’t be Spike. It could never be Spike.

_ Love... give... forgive. Risk the pain. It is your nature. _

Oh god oh god oh god.

She wanted to run home, but she made herself walk, made herself keep on turning all of that over in her head, and when she was finally standing in the doorway looking at him, she wanted to run again, but in the opposite direction.

“Buffy!” Dawn looked up from a hand of playing cards.

“Don’t you have school tomorrow? You should go to bed.” Buffy couldn’t quite meet Spike’s eyes now, so she looked at his hands, long fingers fanning cards out. While she watched, he folded the cards and set them on the flowered bedspread. He had nice fingers. They were even nicer now that they were moving.

Oh god. She was imagining his fingers… moving.

Dawn huffed a frustrated sigh. “Tonight is special. Spike’s awake. Um, I got him some of the blood from the freezer. He’s all weak and stuff, but he seems to be okay.”

“Good. Um, not good about the weak, but… blood good.” Buffy flickered a glance at Spike’s face; he was watching her, brow furrowed. “Okay good.”

“I called Giles and everybody. Giles says he’ll probably need to do some rehab or something to get back in shape. He said you can use the workout room at the Magic Box.”

“Great.”

“Slayer looks tired,” Spike said suddenly. “Let your big sis have a rest.”

Dawn bounced to her feet. “Buffy, can you take over?” She yawned elaborately. “I have school tomorrow. I totally should go to bed.”

“What a great idea,” Buffy said drily, and made her legs cross the room so she could take over the bedside chair as Dawn bounded off to brush her teeth.

“You don’t have to--”

Buffy smiled carefully. “I’m too wired to sleep.” She looked at his hand, but didn’t take it.

“Right.” Spike searched her face. “Good patrol?”

“Not bad,” she said, and that was okay, she told him about the vamps and the demon, and then she gave him a quick summary of what had happened the past few months, the summer and the start of the new school year.

She was talking about what had been happening on Passions -- she had told herself she’d been watching because her mom used to watch, and it made her feel connected still somehow, and that was true, but it was also not the only reason, she’d figured that out now -- when she finally got the courage to slide her hand along the bedspread to his. She kept her voice light as she curled her fingers around his palm, just like she had for months, except not just like it, because his fingers curled back, and was she shaking? She was shaking. That was stupid, this wasn’t anything special, it wasn’t anything new, she was just… comforting an invalid. That was all. She’d tell him so if he asked, but he didn’t, just held her hand and kept on listening to her talk. Probably because it really wasn’t anything special to him. Stupid vampire.

When there was a pause, when she ran out of things to say, she said it.

Not _it_ it -- she wasn’t quite ready for that -- but what she could say tonight. And who knows, maybe he’d see past her shy-girl code and hear what she was really trying to say.

“Um, when you’re better, when you’re back on your feet. Want to help with patrol?”

That, he said yes to.

*

Why the bloody buggering fuck had he agreed to this torture?

It had been a month since he’d awakened from his near-death experience, and it had been the longest bloody month of his bloody existence. Longer than the time he’d been trapped in a wheelchair. Longer than excavating half of Sunnydale to find the Gem of Amara. Longer even than that period he’d been newly chipped and living with first the watcher, then Xander, barely even tolerated. At least then he’d been able to justly rail against his fate!

That first night back from oblivion, Buffy had sat on the side of the bed for a serious talk about what she expected of him now that he didn’t have a chip in his head, and he’d seriously agreed to her terms, every last one, because what the bloody else was he going to do? Leave now? Especially when she'd been sitting there holding his hand half the night, like Niblet had said she'd done the whole time he was out -- he reckoned she'd just got in the habit, didn't mean a bloody thing, but it still was the best thing he'd ever felt, her warm fingers trembling against his. She had lovely strong fingers, did the slayer, every one of them capable of breaking him in two. He'd go a century without killing or feeding for the barest touch of her stake-calloused pinky. Longer. Forever.

Of course he'd bloody agreed.

The next day, the whole bloody gang had trooped into Joyce's room -- he was still reeling from the honor of _that_ \-- and welcomed him back to the lands of the semi-living like he was a bloody hero. It was both touching and bloody infuriating -- after all he'd done to try and fit in, taking on the words and behaviours and even the fucking _costumes_ of the Goody Two Shoes Brigade, all it took to become a companion of their asinine Order of the Scoob was snapping the right fellow's neck? The Scoobies were seriously fucked up, was all, and the moment he realized that, he also realized he fit right in. Balls.

That same day, the real torture had begun.

Spike was no stranger to rehabilitation -- had brought himself back to full strength from a snapped spine, hadn't he? Hundreds, thousands of dull-as-dirt calisthenics done in secret, willing his nerves to regrow, his muscles to reverse their atrophy, all on a restricted diet of whatever the fuck Dru had bothered to feed him, when she'd remembered him at all. Been there, done that, got the bloody crowbar to ram into bloody Angel's skull.

He would've thought that having someone to assist -- someone to provide resistance, research new exercises, chivvy him along through wanting to give up -- would help, but when that person was Buffy, and he was Spike, and Spike was both in love with Buffy and trying to play it cool and pretend he wasn't in love with Buffy… well, things got complicated.

"Here," she'd said that first day in a voice like steel over velvet. "Let's start with some leg lifts." And she'd thrown back the duvet and set her hands to his thighs and helped him lift his legs, one after the other, rep after rep after rep. How the bloody hell had she not noticed his legs weren't the only thing she was helping to lift? Granted, denim did provide a trifling amount of coverage and resistance, but his cock had been _right bloody there_ , doing its level best to throw Drill Sergeant Buffy a salute.

Then she'd put her arms around him and helped him to sit up, her chest pressing against his, and of course she wasn't wearing a bloody bra, and of course her perfect nipples were chilled to hardness, and of course she didn't notice that they were pressing into his skin.

She'd knelt at his bloody feet, taking his feet and rotating the ankles, and bloody hell, he'd been able to see right down her bloody low-cut shirt all the way to her bloody waist, confirming that she damn well wasn't wearing a bra, and her nipples damn well were hard and red as bloody raspberries, and when he'd groaned she'd looked up at him, teeth sinking into her luscious lower lip, and asked him if it was too hard, her head barely more than a foot from his incredibly-hard, apparently-invisible erection, and he'd just shaken his head and let her keep on, because the alternative was her _not_ touching him, and that would kill him for sure.

And then she'd had him lie down and she'd fucking _massaged_ his legs, fingers digging in deep to his thighs and calves, and then she'd helped him roll over, sitting beside him to massage his back, her warm thigh against his hip, and he'd pressed his cock into the mattress, internally chanting an apology to Joyce, and when she'd finally tucked him in and left, he'd realized he couldn't even bloody wank without soiling his clothes or the bed or the bloody beige ceiling, and he was too weak to even fetch a bloody tissue, and so he'd lain there in agony thinking of bloody anything but Buffy's scent and her touch and her voice until he finally got his cockstand under control, and then she'd bloody walked back in the room with a mug of warm pig's blood and he'd been instantly hard as a rock again.

That had been day one.

By day three, he'd been demonstrably strong enough he'd convinced Buffy to let him bathe -- he didn't sweat, but he'd still always liked to be clean and groomed, and of course the hot water would do him good -- and so Buffy had drawn the hot bath and left the room so he could undress himself, and he'd not even got undressed all the way before he spilled in his desperate hand, because Buffy, and then he'd eased himself into the water and wanked again, because Buffy, and then again, and by the time he'd felt remotely eased the water had been cold, and he'd dressed himself in the clean clothes she'd provided and walked back in to the bedroom and she'd glanced up from making up the bed with fresh sheets with that look in her eyes, that fucking _look_ , and he was ready to go again. He'd calmly turned around and fetched a stack of towels from the bathroom cupboard, setting it next to his pillow.

"For spills," he'd explained. "Wouldn't want to soil Joyce's sheets with blood."

He thought Buffy had believed him? Perhaps? She hadn't said anything, at least.

Day ten, she'd pronounced him strong enough to walk short distances, and just after sunset he'd taken her arm and they'd slowly headed down the stairs and out to the drive, where bloody Giles had been waiting with his penis-extension of a sports car to drive him to the torture room of the Magic Box. Spike had walked in and glared at the mats, the pommel horse, the various pieces of exercise equipment, and he'd imagined Buffy naked on every single one of them, raspberry nipples and fragrant quim just begging to be tasted. And then she'd pressed her sweet body up against his and helped him with a new, even-more-painfully-arousing series of exercises that had him wanting to howl.

_ Play it cool _ , he'd reminded himself over and over again. _All part of the plan._ Dawn had told him his answering-machine confession had got cut off, and he’d kept his bloody lip zipped since then, but _fuck_ it was hard. Painfully hard. So. Fucking. Hard.

Now it was fucking day thirty, and he was fair certain he deserved a bloody medal, because he had reached bloody heroic levels of _playing it cool,_ in the face of extraordinary temptation, and _bugger_ he was about to fucking _explode_. Especially since they'd added sparring to the torment cocktail earlier in the week -- because what Spike truly needed on top of Buffy touching him and massaging him and ordering him about was Buffy in a bloody tank top punching and kicking and doing flippy cartwheels all around him. Christ.

"Don't worry, I'll be gentle," she'd grinned the first time.

"Don't put yourself out on my account," he'd retorted, wondering if he could beg her to put him out of his misery instead.

He was starting to think maybe he’d ended up in hell after all.

In any case, tonight they'd jogged side by side on treadmills, Spike dreamily imagining that Buffy's pants of physical exertion were pants of sexual exertion. Buffy had sat behind him on the bench to correct his form for bicep curls, her breasts pressed firmly up against his back. She'd held his feet down for sit-ups, her cleavage greeting him on each up, nipples bouncing in farewell each time he sank down. She'd straddled his thighs to dig her fingers into his lower back, which… everything about that was arousing, no exceptions. And now she was bouncing on her bare toes on the mat in front of him, grinning madly, ready to throw some fake punches and dance about him while he labored in vain to move the way he used to.

God, he hated being weak. He hated being pitiful. He fucking hated playing it cool.

And so he didn't spare himself this time.

He went on the offensive immediately, aiming a kick at her head, and yeah, his legs bloody hurt from the stretch, and yeah, she dodged like it was nothing, but he'd felt more like himself in that one second than he had all month, so he tried a punch, and she blocked it with a little laugh of pleased surprise, but his next punch landed, and the next, and she bared her teeth and started to fight him in earnest -- still holding back, pulling her punches a hair, but he was older and nastier than her even if she was stronger and smarter and practically fucking perfect in every way, and he managed to duck under her next blow and catch her fist, twisting it behind her while he grabbed her other arm, yanking it up in the air, and he had her pinned, his teeth at her throat, and he couldn't help himself, he bent down and bit her, blunt teeth denting the skin just over her pulse.

"I win," he purred into her hot flesh.

Her head turned towards him, little pants of breaths escaping her lips, and her eyes were huge and her lips were trembling and she looked so bloody glorious he was about to bend down and kiss her -- but no, he was bloody well playing it cool, and so he straightened and released her arm and stepped away, and she spun around and punched him in the nose. Hard.

He staggered back, more from surprise than pain. “What the bleeding hell, Slayer?” She hadn't been playing with that one, it had been all out.

“What’s wrong with me?” she demanded, quivering with emotion.

“Come again?”

She launched another punch that he blocked, barely. “Do I have cooties? Do I smell bad? Am I not smart enough? What’s _wrong_ with me?” She was practically screaming by the end.

He shoved her back before she could hit him again. “Nothing bloody wrong with you, except the sudden bout of homicidal insanity! Are you bloody mental?”

She lashed out with her foot, a lightning-fast roundhouse kick that connected solidly with the side of his head; he rolled and came up in a crouch, ready to match her blow for blow, whether his body was on board or not. Her fists were clenched now, and her eyes wide, and god, she’d never looked more beautiful.

“Why?” she yelled, voice cracking. “Why don’t you love me?”

He froze, brain taking a few moments to process the nonsense that had come from her lips, and he couldn’t help himself, he started laughing, staggered by the sheer ridiculousness of what she’d said.

“Don’t laugh at me!” She launched another punch, wild and reckless, and his hand shot out like a snake and caught her wrist.

“And who said I don’t bloody love you?” He caught her other wrist as she swung that fist around towards her head, holding her wrists out to the side so she couldn’t twist away.

She glared at him, eyes blazing. “You!”

“When?” He raised his eyebrows in challenge.

“You-- When Drusilla was here. She was controlling you--”

“For the part where I bloody _attacked_ you, yeah!”

“But she made you say….” Buffy trailed off, eyes wide.

“She didn’t make me say a bloody thing until that last night!” Spike growled. “Was bloody well _courting_ you before that! Was two bloody steps away from quoting poetry and singing bloody ballads under your bloody window!”

“But… but you agreed! I said… and you said….”

“Yeah, I agreed-- after you said you were going to bloody well shut me out of your bloody life! Be a fool if I didn’t choose bloody silence after that!”

“So you lied!”

“Yeah, I bloody well lied! I’m a fucking liar! That’s been bloody well established!" He let go of her wrists and cupped her face. "And I bloody well do love you!"

"I love you too, you jerk!" she growled, and then she lunged at him and he lunged at her and oh god she was kissing him, kissing him like she was the bloody sun and he the desperate moon and her hands were under his shirt and on his skin and he hauled her up against him, hands finding her gorgeous breasts, needing to touch every inch of her, and she shoved him back until he hit the pommel horse, and she was yanking his shirt up over his head and bugger it, he went at the fastenings of her trousers, because he'd had a thousand different fantasies for the bloody pommel horse and he was damn well going for the best damn one before she came to her senses and kicked him in the head again.

He yanked her trousers and knickers down to her knees all at once and spun and heaved her up between the pommels, scooping her legs wide and down on his knees he went, nipping his way up her thigh to her bare pink quim, and oh god she was wet and swollen with arousal already and she opened to him like the gates of heaven, sinking her hand into his hair, and _yes god yes_ she moaned as he set his mouth to her, hitching her hips into the strokes of his tongue. He was dimly aware she’d grabbed onto the pommel for leverage, that her feet had kicked her trousers off the rest of the way, that her ankles had hooked behind his back, but that was all just the bloody garnish for the feast and he licked and sucked and nibbled until she came apart, throbbing against his tongue and god it was perfect, she was perfect, and then she planted her foot in his chest and kicked him back onto the mat, following him down, hot deadly hands on his belt and his zip and his cock and then oh god he was inside her, he was inside her and she was looking down at him, that look, that _look_ , and all he could do was stare, blinded by her ineffable light.

She said his name and she started to rock against him, her eyes drifting closed, and god now that he’d been freed from her gaze he could move again, too, thrusting desperately up into her as she stripped off her tank top, bare breasts heaving as she undulated above him until she started to break, started to lose control, and then she shuddered and rolled him so he was on top, wrapping her legs around his waist and taking him in and in, sweat on her skin, raining clumsy kisses on his throat, and she swore and bit his shoulder, clenching around him with another release and oh god, it was too much, he was lost, he was lost, he thrust and thrust and thrust and spilled in her with a grunt, collapsing into her sweet heaving bosom.

He was weeping, he realized a moment later, and his abused muscles hurt like blazes, and god it was heaven. He rolled his weight off of Buffy and gathered her close, staring at the ceiling. It seemed full of stars.

Buffy sighed and nuzzled his shoulder. “Sorry I kicked you in the head.”

He wrapped his arms tighter around her. “What’s a kick to the head between lovers?”

“Lovers.” She slapped him lightly on the chest. “Took you long enough.”

He glared at her, incredulous. “What?”

“Are you saying you didn’t notice me trying to seduce you?”

“Is that what that was?” Spike kissed her forehead. “I thought you were just trying to drive me round the bloody bend.”

“I was trying to be subtle! For your information, I usually wear bras. And there was a reason I told Giles we had to do your physical therapy after closing time. Also, I know damn well you know how to do a bicep curl.”

“You could have just bloody said something!” Spike huffed in exasperation.

Buffy traced an aimless shape on his bare chest. “Yeah, but… I’m not good at that. And I thought you really didn’t want me, so I didn’t… didn’t want to risk the pain. You were totally ignoring me.”

“If by _ignoring_ you mean _trying not to spontaneously dust from frustration_ , yeah. Niblet told me to play it cool.”

“Wait, Dawn was on to you? She told me you didn’t… oh, that little brat!”

“Hate to break it to you, Slayer, but your little sis could give Machiavelli a run for his money.”

“It’s going to be a rough few years till she graduates,” Buffy sighed, then rolled over on top of him, elbows on either side of his head. “So you’ve been in love with me all this time?”

He grinned up at her, hands curving around her thighs. “Yeah. Long bloody time.”

“How long?”

“Don’t bloody know. Didn’t even realize when it started. Just one day I knew.”

“Me too,” she said, voice shy even though she was still all pink and glowing from sex. “So... standing up to the torture? That wasn’t just for Dawn?”

“It was for you,” he admitted, stroking her soft hair.

She kissed his chin. “And Ben? That wasn’t just for Mom?”

“No. It was for you.”

“Thank god,” she laughed into his lips. “I was so jealous. I thought you liked Dawn and Mom more than me.”

“Never,” he vowed, rolling her over. “Love them, yeah, but… you’re the one.” He stroked his hand all along her body, barely able to believe she was there. “God help me, Buffy, it’s all about you.”

She ducked up to kiss him. “Us,” she whispered. “This is all about us.”

He pressed his forehead to hers, closing his eyes just for a moment, just to absorb it all, but they popped open again when Buffy grabbed his arse.

“You done basking yet?” She gave him a dark, meaningful grin. “Because the way I see it, we have at least five more pieces of exercise equipment in here to defile. So you gonna get the rest of the way naked and fuck me again, or what?” She flipped him over on his back, shoving his wrists into the mat on either side of his head, rubbing her hot wet cunt against his cock.

He raised his eyebrows and grinned brokenly up at her. “Such naughty language, Slayer! And here I thought you weren’t good at saying things like that. What happened to subtlety?”

“Well,” Buffy said thoughtfully, “if there’s one lesson I’ve learned over the past month, it’s that subtlety is _way_ overrated.”

**Author's Note:**

> A thousand thanks to Sigyn and EllieRose101 for brainstorming and cheerleading and betaing this puppy, and a million thanks to yellowb for organizing yet another fantastic EC! Thank you to Holly for the opening paragraph!
> 
> Contains lyrics by Sammy Cahn from the song "Ain't That a Kick In the Head" sung by Dean Martin.


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